"I'm sure of it," replied Neale. "I wish I wasn't. But--I saw him with this pipe in his lips at two o'clock on Saturday! I recognized it at once." "Let's hurry on and see the police," said Betty. "We know something now, at any rate." Polke, they were told at the police-station, was in his private house close by: a polite constable conducted them thither. And presently they were shown into the superintendent's dining-room, where Polke, hospitably intent, was mixing a drink for a stranger. The stranger, evidently just in from a journey, rose and bowed, and Polke waved his hand at him with a smile, as he looked at the two young people. "Here's your man, miss!" said Polke cheerily. "Allow me--Detective-Sergeant Starmidge, of the Criminal Investigation Department." CHAPTER VIII THE SATURDAY NIGHT STRANGER Neale, who had never seen a real, live detective in the flesh, but who cherished something of a passion for reading sensational fiction and the reports of criminal cases in the weekly newspapers, looked at the man from New Scotland Yard with a feeling of surprise. He knew Detective-Sergeant Starmidge well enough by name and reputation. He was the man who had unravelled the mysteries of the Primrose Hill murder--a particularly exciting and underground affair. It was he who had been intimately associated with the bringing to justice of the Camden Town Gang--a group of daring and successful criminals which had baffled the London police for two years. Neale had read all about Starmidge's activities in both cases, and of the hairbreadth escape he had gone through in connection with the second. And he had formed an idea of him--which he now saw to be a totally erroneous one. For Starmidge did not look at all like a detective--in Neale's opinion. Instead of being elderly, and sinister, and close of eye and mouth, he was a somewhat shy-looking, open-faced, fresh-coloured young man, still under thirty, modest of demeanour, given to smiling, who might from his general appearance have been, say, a professional cricketer, or a young commercial traveller, or anything but an expert criminal catcher. "Only just got here, and a bit tired, miss," continued Polke, waving his hand again at the detective. "So I'm just giving him a refresher to liven his brains up. He'll want 'em--before we've done." Betty took the chair which Polke offered her, and looked at the stranger with interest. She knew nothing about Starmidge, and she thought him quite different to any preconceived notion which she had ever had of men of his calling. "I hope you'll be able to help us," she said politely, as Starmidge, murmuring something about his best respects to his host, took a whisky-and-soda from Polke's hand. "Do you think you will--and has Mr. Polke told you all about it?" "Given him a mere outline, miss," remarked Polke. "I'll prime him before he goes to bed. Yes--he knows the main facts." "And what do you propose to do--first?" demanded Betty.